


The American Dream

by BeveStuscemi



Series: Very Important American History [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: America Fuck Yeah, COMIN TO SAVE THE MOTHERFUCKIN DAY YEAH, M/M, why the fuck not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 01:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15183431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeveStuscemi/pseuds/BeveStuscemi
Summary: Independence Day is no fun when you're either:1. British2. Scared of Fireworks3. A Huge Patriot with a Nasty IllnessWhen ex-collegiate football player and Senator of Colorado Steven Armstrong falls ill on his most favourite night of the year, he is visited by the spirit of the 16th President of the United States of America.





	The American Dream

Though there were many choice words to describe Steven Armstrong, both critics and admirers unanimously agreed that he was a very robust man. Even as a child, Steven had never been plagued by illnesses that crept up on young children and he credited this to his father’s strict enforcement of cod liver oil and rigorous exercise. While the days of running circles around his weaker classmates had long gone, Steven had continued his father’s health advice into adulthood but had now coupled it alongside a high protein diet and many hours spent at Denver’s gym. In other words, Steven Armstrong was never sick.  
And yet here he was; a shivering, sweaty mess and too weak to even get up and enjoy the July Fourth celebrations outside. He groaned and wiped at the sweat beading on his brow, cringing as he felt it spread across his forehead.  
“Fuckin’ Mexicans…”  
While the cause of his illness was still undiagnosed, Steven believed it was his recent trip to Central America where he met with a few politicians and other characters he did not disclose to state government. Maybe it was the sudden intake of spicy food, the constant barrage of heat and poor hotel air conditioning or maybe just something going around in the local area. But whatever it was, it was Mexico’s fault. Steven made a mental note to let Edwin the PA know that he was going to cut off any diplomatic relations with Mexico should he become President. Until then, Steven decided he was going to rot on his bed until he regained his strength.

Steven had truly picked the worst time of year to fall ill, whether it be the loud shouts and screams from neighbourhood children or constant stream of light pouring in between his blinds, he was not going to recover anytime soon. Perhaps this had been deliberate sabotage by the entire Mexican population. A country wide practical joke on Steven’s behalf to make him loathe his favourite day on the calendar.  
“Jokes on them,” Steven muttered to himself. “At least I still have _freedom_ , I’m not some pseudo-Communist pawn in a fuckin’ puppet government, smuggling drugs and boarder-hopping…” Steven had no idea what he was saying, or even if he was making sense but he continued to babble about his hatred for Mexico for another minute or so. When he finally realised that he was talking nonsense and created a universe where Fidel Castro was an American hero who fought off the British in 1962, he decided to stop.  
“I’m so fucked!” He groaned, accepting that he was starting to lose his sanity. He turned his head to the side and squinted at his alarm clock. Despite the blurriness from disorientation and lack of glasses, Steven could just about make out the time to be six forty-five in the afternoon. He’d been lying in bed for nine hours now, unable to move, eat or even sleep.  
“They’ll be letting off fireworks in a few hours.” Steven had never been warier of multicoloured gunpowder until this point in his life. He couldn’t bear the thought of his head being pounded with hour long displays of fireworks nor the bright sparks of light that would inevitably crash against his window.

“Ah, shit…” Steven reached over and shut his blinds fully, disgusted with how weak his arms felt. To the man who could probably deadlift a truck, this was embarrassing. With the room now in total darkness, save for the fluorescent red of the alarm clock, Steven decided that the only thing he could do was to try and sleep through most of the celebrations and save himself a worsening migraine. He tucked himself under his cow print bedsheets and turned his pillow over, unwilling to sleep in the sweat that formed at the back of his head. He threw his head back onto the pillow, scowling as he did so.  
“Happy Fourth of July, Mexican bastards.” He said finally.    
Much to his own surprise, Steven was asleep within minutes.

-

As anticipated, Steven awoke to the loud shrieks and explosions of fireworks echoing around the suburbs. Though his migraine had finally passed, Steven’s head still felt incredibly heavy as though the room had been submerged thousands of feet underwater. His peripheral vision was obscured by a ring of black and Steven fumbled aimlessly on his bedside table to look for his glasses. He eventually found them behind his alarm clock which now read a few minutes passed eleven. Sighing, Steven placed the glasses back onto his face and pushed them up his nose with his index finger, still trying to shake the weird, oppressive feeling in the room. A large firework exploded into the night sky and a bright spark of light managed to sneak its way under the blinds and illuminated the corner of Steven’s bedroom.  
In the second of light that flooded the bedroom, Steven was confronted with a tall, dark figure lurking between his trophy cabinet and his door.  
“What the fuck…?” Steven rubbed his eyes, hoping that it was just a trick of the light mixed with dizziness. He was in no mood to tackle a whoever was standing in the corner nor did he have the strength to run downstairs and withdraw a firearm. So instead, he just squinted into the darkness of the corner.

“Not enjoying the holiday?”  
Steven froze in shock, staring dumbfounded as the figure emerged from the shadows. Steven had not been this confused or uncomfortable in a long time, not since he witnessed President Sears’ rendition of _Lady Marmalade_ at Congress karaoke night. Yet when the figure walked closer to Steven, the feelings of discomfort washed away in a sea of relief and strange euphoria. The figure radiated a warm glow in the neon lighting of the alarm clock and the soft cadence he spoke him lured Steven back to his happy place of warm Texas evenings and the smell of a freshly cut football field.  
“Abraham Lincoln?” Steven whispered, voice part happiness and part denial.  
“Yes. It is I.” Lincoln took another step forward and sat on the edge of Steven’s bed, one leg crossed over the other. Steven gawped at Lincoln, his eyes trying to synthesise what exactly was going on right now. It was a bizarre experience, being face-to-face with a childhood hero and adulthood role model. Ignoring the fact that Lincoln had been dead for a good century and a half, Steven could still feel the heaviness of his presence, a heaviness that transcended all laws of logic and reason and instead read as… sexual.  
“Well, no offence Mister President, but what the fuck?” Lincoln turned his head at this, seemingly surprised.  
“Have you not heard the stories? How the ghosts of presidents passed rise from the grave on the most glorious day of the year and walk the Earth?”  
“Just like them damn Mexicans…” Steven huffed before turning back to president number sixteen. “But why’re you here with me?”  
“Nobody should be alone on July the Fourth.” Lincoln placed his hand on Steven’s foot, casually massaging circles into the ball of the foot.  
Steven considered this. He tried to recall the last time he spent the holiday with someone he cared about. He attended a government party back in ’06 but he hadn’t truly cared for anyone there. There was also the girl from Dallas when he was a lad and vaguely resembled a human, but he denounced her affections once he found out about her two percent Swedish ancestry. So, no. Steven never spent the holiday with anyone he cared about.

Now, Steven Armstrong would often portray an image of immovable confidence and self-determination, but even he admitted from time to time that he was somewhat lonely. His social circle had declined substantially in recent years, swapping out burly football players for wiry old men in suits. When he reflected on his glory days since passed, he always thought of his time on the college’s football team; the sense of closeness and belonging, team spirit and hour-long showers. Fuck it, he needed to get laid, and what better way to do it than with the person who inspired you to become who you are, even he had been dead for the past fifteen decades.  
“I’m just gonna let you know,” Armstrong sat up straight and kicked the covers from over his legs. “That you’re giving off a weird, sexual vibe but I’m gonna follow through with it because I’m a patriot… and lonely.” He finished, starting to unbutton his pyjama shirt.  
Abraham Lincoln shot him his signature smile. “I knew you would not refuse this rather unique opportunity.” He dug his hand into the pocket inside his long overcoat and pulled out something rectangular.  
“That a cassette?” Steven inquired, unsure of what a nineteenth century man would be doing with the device.  
“Indeed.” Lincoln walked over to the stereo system atop a chest of drawers. Casting aside Armstrong’s taped recordings of Franklin Roosevelt’s _Fireside Chats_ , Lincoln placed the cassette into the holder and pressed play.

***ATTENTION READERS: THIS IS YOUR CUE TO PLAY ‘AMERICA, FUCK YEAH’ BY TEAM AMERICA***

“Huh. Nice choice.” Armstrong said, wriggling out of his pyjama top.  
“I figured you would enjoy it.”  
“I’ve always had an ear for fine American mus—” Armstrong’s sentence was cut short by the sudden, strong kiss Abraham Lincoln had pulled him into. The kiss was excruciatingly awkward, given Lincoln’s lack of practice and Armstrong’s really big jaw but both seemed to cope just fine. Steven was slightly taken aback by the whole encounter, he’d gone years without intimacy with another person and now he was letting the sixteenth president of the United States straddle him like he was a chair at Ford’s Theatre. Still, Armstrong couldn’t complain, and he likened it to how groupies must feel when the rock star invites them backstage.  
“ _Am I gay or am I a necrophile?”_ A thought passed through Armstrong’s head.  
_“Neither,”_ His own brain provided a counterargument. “ _You’re a PATRIOT.”_  
Armstrong shrugged off his inner ponderings and turned his attention to Lincoln’s coat instead.  
After Lincoln’s jacket and shirt had been successfully removed (or ripped off, depending on your terminology), Steven finally paid attention to the tent in his pyjama bottoms. He focussed intently on it, trying to work out if the striped pattern worked in or against his favour in showing off the goods but Lincoln diverted his attention by placing both of his presidential hands underneath Steven’s slab of a jaw.  
“Steven,” Lincoln began, staring into his beady eyes. “I want you.”  
“Hah.” Armstrong gave a throaty laugh. “Alright then, bend over.”  
There was no need for preparation with a dead American president. If Lincoln could endure a Derringer to the back of the head, he could endure Steven Armstrong’s Derringer to the derriere, so the latter grabbed a fistful of Vaseline from his bedside cabinet and he was good to go.

After the first few unsure pumps at Lincoln’s Potomac River, Armstrong finally got into the swing of things and began to get deeper into the Delaware Valley. For Steven Armstrong, this was a dream come true. As he moved faster, he thought of all the lonely nights he spent with his trusty tub of Vaseline, pleasuring himself to his encyclopaedia of American history. His usual favourite was Theodore Roosevelt or Richard Nixon, if he was feeling especially kinky.  
“Dirty Watergate slut, ain’tcha?” Steven felt himself get harder at the thought of the Frost versus Nixon debate and he suddenly gripped Lincoln’s hips harder as he felt himself reach the brink of climax.  
“Lincoln…” Armstrong’s face was flushed and eyes wide.  
“Yes?” Lincoln turned back, and his statuesque features nearly made Armstrong lose it.  
“Call me Uncle Sam.”  
“Uncle Sam.” Lincoln said plainly, and Armstrong imagined he was at the Gettysburg Campaign right as he said that.  
“Slippery… little…” Steven pulled out having finally unloaded his Derringer into the depths of Abraham Lincoln’s ass. Steven Armstrong stumbled blindly for a second before finally collapsing back onto his bed, lying next to the warm, soft body of Lincoln.

-

When Steven woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was unbearably hot. The blinds to his window were closed and he was sweltering under a thick duvet and cotton pyjamas. As he pushed the bedsheets off, he recoiled at a familiar, sticky feeling in his groin area, a feeling he had not encountered since he was a teenager.  
“What am I?” Steven inspected the damage in his blurred vision. “Fuckin’ fourteen or something?”  
As he reached for the glasses he left by his alarm clock, the memories of the night flooded back to him. Some were good, most were down right grotesque. Somewhat embarrassed by his own imagination, Armstrong shook his head and cursed.  
“Damn fever dreams. Makes you think of all sorts of crazy shit.”  
Regardless, Steven was feeling better and after changing out of his pyjamas, he decided he was going to contact the office and inform them that he would be in tomorrow. However, when Steven picked up his work phone, he saw a message notification from Edwin, the PA at the Denver office.  
  
_Good morning, Mr. Armstrong._  
_I’m sorry to inform you that I won’t be in today._  
_I had this really weird dream about Chester Arthur and I need some time to figure things out._  
_Best, Edwin._  
  
Disturbed, Armstrong put the phone down. 


End file.
